


Because I Love You

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Humiliation, M/M, Skull Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: There's a limit somewhere, but obviously this isn't it.





	Because I Love You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahimsabitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/gifts).



> HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE! GO BACK AND READ THE TAGS. I DON'T WANNA HEAR ONE GODDAMN WORD ABOUT NOT BEING PREPARED FOR THE SKULLFUCKING YOU'RE ABOUT TO READ.

“Why do you expect me to be willing to hurt you?”

It wasn’t so much an _expectation_ , really, but boy, Wade could _hope_ , couldn’t he?

Nate’s fingers rest on his face, thumb following the edge between two livid scars, just under his eye. He looks tired, watching Wade, and Wade kind of understands, he really does. Spending time with Wade could be exhausting -- no one knew that better than the guy stuck with him the most, which was himself.

It’s not about getting Nate to do things he doesn’t want to do. It’s not even about getting someone to hurt him, though that is, like, a bonus.

“I didn’t expect you to be squeamish.”

The words come out like a taunt or a tease, but they’re not really mean that way. It’s just a fact; Wade makes these suggestions because they’re things he’d never expect anyone else to be willing to do -- often because they’re things he wouldn’t _trust_ anyone else to do.

But Nate is… well, he’s not easy -- nothing about Nathan Summers is _easy_ \--  but he has these great big red buttons to him that Wade can’t hardly help pushing. He makes it easy for Wade to push those buttons because he never tries to hide it when Wade hits them. For example: now. His lip curls back sharply, nostrils flaring as he takes a sharp breath, the fingers on Wade’s face tensing just short of clutching down.

So it’s not meant as a challenge, but it’s damn well being taken as one and Wade’s really a-okay with that.

“I’d ask you for a reason, but I bet you couldn’t even tell me, could you,” Nate growls, his voice that rough, low snarl it gets to when he’s feeling in the mood to make Wade squirm. “You barely have a reason for anything you do. You want something so you try to get it. No logic, no reason, just stubborn hedonistic bullshit, and you expect me to indulge you because who else would indulge a sick fuck like you.”

There’s something about that, about the slow way Nate’s fingers clutch on with slow, inexorable pressure. About his voice, deadly sincere, and his eyes, so keen and analytical even now, checking for second thoughts and uncertainties they both knew Wade won’t voice even if he feels.

Nate holds him tight, turning his head side to side as if appraising him, and Wade lets him. There’s a sort of role he slides into, they both slide into, entering a sort of scene without any of the boring dialog that’s supposed to proceed such things. Wade knows better than to ever try this kind of thing with anyone else -- no one but Nate, because Nate might not be able to read his mind but he can still read him like a book, better than anyone else ever did.

It’s bad BDSM, how little they talk about these things -- or, really, the _way_ they discuss these things, because more often than not, it’s _discussed_ , but it’s done in a way that makes it part of the scene, designed to make Wade squirm and burn under Nate’s acerbic, cutting breakdowns of what Wade wants and why.

Bad, but Wade loves it, _lives_ for it. Anybody else trying to embarrass Wade -- humiliate or belittle him -- would either make him mad or make him laugh. No one else could hit him just the right way to give him that chest-collapsing sense of being _wrong_ , being _broken_ that made him both upset and unbelievably hard.

“You think doing any of this shit does anything for me? You think I like getting your blood all over, listening to you bitch while your neck heals because I didn’t snap it clean enough for your tastes?”

There’s an edge there, a sort of teetering waver as Nate moves along an edge of honesty and fiction, and maybe that’s part of it, the weird flutter of guilt in his lower gut, the way he suddenly can’t quite meet Nate’s eyes. Because maybe some of the things he’s asked Nate to do to him, _for_ him, aren’t exactly to Nate’s taste. Maybe Wade knows that, maybe in a weird way part of what gets Wade off is that Nate doesn’t exactly like these things but does them anyway. Like Wade’s worth pleasing.

Because he’s still himself, and because nothing ever shuts him up for long, he glances back to Nate’s face and he says, “Never noticed you having trouble getting off.”

He relishes the pain of the slap that follows almost as much as the indignation of being smacked, open palmed, like he’s not worth the effort of Nate closing his fist.

“The things I do for you,” Nate growls, holding Wade’s face in that vice grip again. “Because I love you…”

Not the first time the ‘L’ word has been dragged out between them, but definitely the first time Nate’s used it in a scene. Wade feels his heart do something dumb, sort of like it’s trying to seize up and beat faster at the same time, and there’s that weird twist of humiliation and guilt again, because if he’s so disgusting that Nate’s only doing this to appease him then maybe he should cry off, but he can’t make himself form the words. He feels nasty and grotesque and the weird, detached way Nate cocks his head to the side, considering him while he stands there squirming doesn’t help much.

Finally, Nate releases him, pushing him lightly away.

“Take your shirt off and go get the towels. I don’t need a fucking mess later.”

Whatever urge had been there to withdraw his request vanishes, and he’s peeling his t-shirt off even as he hastens to grab the towels out of the mess in his room. Unlike the towels in the bathroom, these are cheap and coarse, absorbent enough to do the job but not pleasant by any stretch. They’re a cushion between Wade’s knees and the kitchen tile, or a buffer between Wade’s blood and the dingy, stained carpet.

Nate is still standing in the kitchenette, mouth pressed in a grim line, when Wade returns with an armload of towels. He says nothing, so Wade just sets about laying the towels out there on the floor and kneeling for him there, trying to keep still despite the urge to shiver -- it didn’t seem to matter what they did, by the first frost the apartment had been freezing, and this particular spot, between the end of the counter and the shitting dining room table, was one of the coldest spots.

For a small eternity, several minutes at least, Nate just watches him, considering, weighing. Wade knows the wait is part of it, knows also that if he says or does the wrong thing, Nate will give him nothing. Nate takes the scene seriously, and if he interprets anything in Wade as uncertainty or a break in his desire, Nate ends it. This policy is Wade’s fault, really, and he acknowledges it -- he forgets to safe-word out, forgets that it’s an option, or gets too wrapped up in the idea of disappointing Nate to allow himself to do it.

Another way in which Nate proves himself to be the only one Wade could trust for these things he wants.

Why does that make him feel so squirmy-weird?

When Nate finally touches him, his hand is gentle again, fingertips of a perfectly organic hand running the edge of Wade’s jaw to coax his gaze away from the floor. “I’m not going to kill you this way,” he says flatly, and Wade knows that tone too. This is the Serious, Outlining the Parameters of the Scene tone, and it’s very, very similar to the way Nate gets before they go kick bad-guy ass together. This is Nate in charge, expecting and tolerating no argument -- this is Nate telling him what he will be doing, what he will be getting, and saying without words that if it’s not what he wants, he’s free to leave, but Nate’s mind is set.

Accept the terms or back out, but it’s the last opportunity for changing his mind.

He nods.

Immediately the left side of his face is in some kind of agony, and it’s all he can do to keep from scrambling out of place. There’s absolutely no warning before Nate is digging what Wade has to assume is his fucking _telekinesis_ into Wade’s eye socket. Blood and something thicker, saltier, running sloppy and hot over the rough terrain of his cheek. His right eye is weeping sympathetic tears, his breath hitching while his left eye is not scooped out or torn out but rather crushed in place, making a noise that sounds disgustingly loud and wet, a sort of popping gusher noise.

The hand on his jaw never tightens, but when he flinches back it follows, and he ends up fighting the instinctive urge to escape the pain, trying to lean into the touch. Eventually the active agony sort of dies down, and Wade thinks despite the damage and the intensity and the way his body is already hot and shaky, his dick half hard and his hands balled into tight fists, it was only maybe a minute of actual hurt.

Of course, his healing factor, pain in the ass that it can be, already has the pain tamped down, the socket itchy as the tissue behind where his eye should be immediately starts trying to heal itself. He shudders and stares up at Nate.

His vision is blurry, partially because of tears and partially because his remaining eye is still figuring out how to focus properly now that it’s gone solo. But Nate shifts his hold on his face, brushing away the tears on the right side. When Wade glances at Nate’s crotch, he can see Nate’s pretty close to fully hard in his stupid military surplus fatigues.

“God, you’re actually into this,” Nate says, somewhere between disgusted and wondering, and Wade knows half of that is a put on to tray and hide the other part. “I could do anything to you, couldn’t I, and you’d kneel there, let me put my dick in any hole I wanted.”

And _god_ , yeah, maybe it’s a little fucked up, but that’s really the long and short of it, isn’t it? He’d let Nate do anything to him, _anything Nate wanted_ , and since Nate’s never willing to push the boundaries of what that means, Wade has to. Wade comes up with ever more convoluted ways to display how deep this goes, how badly he wants to be _Nate’s_ , looking for that one thing that Nate finally says ‘no’ to. Looking for what will make Nate leave, because everyone leaves. Sure as death and taxes, eventually everyone gets sick of it, sick of the pushing and the clinging and the crazy, and they leave.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is rough the way it might have been after getting his throat fucked, or maybe the way it might have been after crying for a few hours. The sound, however he parses it, seems to do it for Nate, who pulls that hand from his face and uses both to shove his pants down low on his hips, letting his cock spring free.

It’s going to hurt and they both already know that. Wade still half-expects Nate to warn him, to say something in the ensuing stretch of silence, but he just seems set on watching Wade’s face, looking for those tells, Wade guesses, and then he’s stepping closer, Wade’s lips parting in a automatic response to being in this position and seeing that sight.

Frankly, _pain_ isn’t the word for it. It hurts, yeah, and water is fucking _wet_ , no _shit_ it hurts. It feels like, oh, maybe like there’s a _dick_ in his freshly vacated _eye socket_. It is about as pleasant as fucking a sandpaper-lined fleshlight, except Nate makes this weird, considering little noise, and that’s hot, hotter still when Nate grabs his head on either side, firm and unrelenting, and starts rocking shallow strokes in and out.

He can only imagine what it feels like to Nate. Must not be the worst feeling because he keeps it up (ha) for a few minutes, the head of his cock rubbing firm against the torn up mess of his extraocular muscles. Every once and awhile, he nudges against what Wade assumes must be a live nerve, making Wade suck in a sharp, aching breath each time.

“Wade,” Nate grunts, and Wade can’t look at him, can’t hardly do anything now but utter a helpless, meaningless noise of something between approval and concern. His existence is narrowed down to pain and the horrifying persistence of his own erection. “I can’t… like this, Wade. Not enough.”

And Wade’s not an unreasonable guy, really. Not in these situations, anyway. They’re having sex, however fucked up it is, and he wants to get Nate off, not just because Nate getting off means the pain stops but because Nate getting off is the whole reason he wanted to do this in the first place.

It’s an eye socket. He should have thought about this part; it’s not deep enough before Nate’s pressing against the back of the orbit. Couple dozen centimeters, that’s all the depth he could get without breaking Wade’s skull _open_ , which he’d already pretty clearly said he wouldn’t do. Nothing that would kill Wade. Okay, fine.

He can’t find words, but that’s not really his fault this time. He opens his mouth, and the sound that leaves him is horrible, this injured and yet undeniably aroused sound, and it doesn’t really translate to _his_ ear as ‘go ahead and fuck my mouth then’, which was his intended message, but Nate, bless the man, seems to understand anyway.

Nate has a great cock. Even with the head and a surprising bit of the length coated in blood and fatty tissue and slimy, thick vitreous humor, even _then,_  it’s a cock Wade loves having in his mouth. Thick and heavy, long enough to make deepthroating a challenge but not impossible. He sucks at the salty, coppery mess slicking the first few inches of the length, surprised by how good it is, how much he _likes_ it.

And Nate seems to get it, that Wade doesn’t want gentle right now, doesn’t want slow; he holds on and fucks into Wade’s throat, fast and sloppy. He gives Wade nothing, and Wade _wants_ nothing, and even with the whole left side of his face set to a tender, unrelenting ache, it’s perfect. Wade can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t move, and it’s _perfect._

There’s tears, even as he’s coming helplessly in his own fist he’s half-sobbing, half-choking on Nate’s dick, his right eye squinched up shut but leaking furiously. It’s good, it’s disgusting, it’s amazing, and when Nate finally spills he puts everything he has into milking him, making him stay so he can swallow as much of that mess as possible.

It’s a mess, for sure; cum and saliva and all the nasty bloody eye-remnants that had clung to Nate’s dick. He sobs loudly when his mouth is freed, collapsing down onto his hands as soon as his head is freed from Nate’s grip. He feels shaken, dizzy, close to throwing up. His face hurts, throat hurts.

But there’s satisfaction, too. Nate did that for him. Just like Nate is getting down on the floor beside him, _for him_. Pulling him forward to collapse against that strong chest, _for him_ , Cradling him, rocking him gently, soothing him even though the hysterics he feels right on the edge of haven’t managed to burst, alien-like, out of his chest.

There’s a limit -- there’s limits to everything. But at the moment, Wade feels like that limit is still so far off that the chance of finding it is so removed from likelihood as to make is seem fictional. Because Nate _loves_ him.

He’ll do anything, and then comfort him afterward, because he loves him.


End file.
